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beginning. The long wait had only made the payoff more perfect.
    The son had roused himself, sufficient to deal with the fool in the bathroom. But it wouldn’t last. He would lash out in pain and confusion, then subside into that wonderful dead apathy, crushed by the weight of his loss.
    He finishes his drink and nudges the glass across the bar.
    He feels godlike. He likes the feeling.
    He has always liked the feeling.
    * * *
    On Third Avenue R.J. paused to clear his head and hail a taxi. His blood was still toxic but he was coming around. A little brisk exercise after drinking always cleared his head better than coffee.
    Hookshot was right. Enough to drink; things to do now, and he needed a clear head to do them. His desire for any more to drink had shrunk, dwindled away to a small kitten next to the raging lion that had been inside him earlier.
    He could handle it now. He was that kind of boozer: drink when he wanted and stop when he was ready. It was hard, but he was no goddamn alky, no matter what anybody said.
    He took a deep breath of city air and coughed it right back up. It was cold, and he smelled rain around the corner. He didn’t mind rain or cold, especially when he was working. And R.J. Brooks was working.
    He’d known he had to do something, even when he was saying he wouldn’t. After all, it was his mother. It didn’t matter whether she was a great mother or what he thought of her. She was his mother, for Christ’s sake. And if your mother was murdered, you had to do something about it.
    A taxi pulled up to the curb beside him. He waved it off. He could think better on his feet. He was sure he could make it home before the rain.
    R.J. turned up his collar and began to walk. He got into a good steady rhythm, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.
    He was in the mid-Sixties when he forgot all about the weather.
    The dark Mercedes screeched in off the street and nearly pinned him against the side of a restaurant. “Jesus!” he shouted, cracking his elbow against the stone wall as he jumped for safety.
    The two men in black leather who jumped out of the car were on him so fast he could only try to cover up, not fight back. He felt the first couple of blows, then nothing much at all until an old wino poked at his face with a greasy handkerchief. “What the hell…?”
    “Easy, fella.” The old man looked like a worn rake handle. Rags hung off his bones like tattered wrapping paper, and his fingers worked with the crackle of oilskin. “Better take it easy, you don’t wanna spend the rest of the night up to Bellevue.”
    His head was pounding, and he could see his blood on the crusty rag when the wino took it away from his face.
    “Those guys—who were they?”
    “What guys?”
    “The guys who just kicked the shit out of me.”
    The wino shook his head, or maybe it always shook like that. “You got it bad, kid?”
    R.J. stumbled to the sidewalk. The mist thickened. His jacket was ripped, a hole in the knee of his pants. His whole body throbbed dully. “What time is it?” The air frosted in front of his face as he spoke.
    “Don’t know anything about time,” the wino said. “It’s dark.”
    “And here comes the rain,” said R.J.
    “You wanna come with me, I got a place down by the river.”
    R.J. took a step and staggered against a lightpost, bracing his arm for support. “I’m okay. I got a place. Thanks.”
    He took a deep breath, then tried a few steps. His knee was stiff and a couple of ribs were bruised. He could feel clotted blood on his cheekbone. His ears throbbed from a dozen punches.
    At first he’d thought it might be Rex and one of his asshole buddies. But it was Burkette’s bodyguard, with a pal riding shotgun.
    R.J. had walked right into it, eyes blurred by whiskey and self-pity. He was lucky it wasn’t a whole lot worse.
    He dug a pair of tens out of his pocket. “You’re good people, pops. I won’t forget it.”
    The old man looked at the money and